by Nancy Garden
“There.” Nora settled a thin summer blanket around her mother’s knees, adjusted the robe on her shoulders, and pushed her into the kitchen. “Now I’ll just go get Father and then I’ll start breakfast. Bacon and eggs this morning? Or pancakes?”
Corinne looked confused. “Not that nice turkey? With stuffing and cranberries?”
Nora knelt by the wheelchair. “We’ll have that soon, Mama,” she said soothingly. “Real soon. But it’s June now, see?” She pointed to the big calendar on the wall. Louise Brice had given it to them after Sarah had said that having a calendar in a prominent place would be a good way to keep Ralph and Corinne, especially Corinne, aware of the date. She gave Corinne a hug. “It’s strawberry time,” she said gaily. “And I”—she stood up, curtseying—“will gather strawberries later for my lady and gentleman. Maybe”—she bent closer, whispering—“I’ll even make biscuits and we can have STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE!”
Corinne giggled delightedly and squeezed Nora’s hand with her own good one. “Oh, lovely, lovely! Would you? I’ll be so good, really I will.”
Nora’s throat caught as she kissed her mother’s cheek. “You’re always good, sweetie. Always.”
Her eyes brimming with tears, she wheeled her mother into the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” she said, kissing her and going into her father’s room.
Ralph, already bathed and dressed in loose-fitting faded black slacks and a blue plaid shirt, was sitting glumly by his window. “You have to take in these pants,” he announced when Nora came through the doorway. “All my pants. I’ve lost weight. I’m getting thin, no matter what I eat. My stomach hurts all the time,” he whined. “I think it’s cancer.”
“If you think it’s cancer,” Nora said, pushing his new mail-order walker toward him, “then you’d better see Dr. Cantor.”
“Ha!” Ralph snorted. “And have him send me to the hospital and stick tubes in me and fill me full of poison? I’d rather die in my own bed in my own house”—he gave her a lopsided smile as she pulled him up from his chair and placed his hands on the walker’s front bar—“with my own little girl to take care of me. You’ll be sorry when your old father’s gone, won’t you?”
“Yes, Father,” Nora said dutifully, guiding him out of the bedroom. “Of course I will. Do you think your stomach can handle bacon and eggs?”
“What? Bacon and eggs? I don’t know. Don’t make the bacon greasy,” he said as Nora eased him down into his chair at the kitchen table. “Let me see it.”
Nora, with a glance at her mother, whose head was sagging and whose eyes were closed—but her breath was even and regular—fetched the bacon package from the ice box on the back stoop.
“Open it,” Ralph commanded. “Let me smell it. Bacon doesn’t keep.”
“I just bought it yesterday.” Nora snipped the package open and held it under her father’s nose. “It has a sale date two weeks from now.”
“Harumph! Sale date. Didn’t have stuff like that in the old days. They could put any date on, Nora, you know that.” He looked up at her. “Smells all right,” he said begrudgingly. “But it’s got too much fat. Don’t undercook it. Bacon should be…”
“…crisp and brown,” she supplied, for he said this every time she made bacon. “I know, Father.”
***
Corinne woke up long enough for Nora to get some scrambled eggs into her and one piece of bacon, finely minced. Ralph, despite his stomach ache, managed to eat five pieces of bacon and the rest of Corinne’s eggs plus his own. He ate slowly, though; Nora’s tea was cold by the time he finished, and she kept an anxious eye on the clock, wanting him to be back in his room and out of the way when the phone people came.
“I’ll just take Mama back to bed,” Nora said when her father had only one limp piece of toast left. “Then I’ll come back for you.”
“I think I’ll stay here today,” Ralph said. “Don’t want to go to my room yet. Maybe I’ll sit in the parlor or—what’s that? Sounds like a motor!”
Oh, Lord, Nora thought. “I’ll go see,” she said as calmly as possible, dashing into the hall. “Then I’ll settle Mama.”
“I don’t want that Brice woman here,” her father bellowed. “It’s bad enough she comes twice a week. This isn’t one of her days.”
“No, you’re right,” Nora called. “It isn’t. I’ll be right back.”
A glance out the front door confirmed Nora’s suspicions; it was the phone company, half an hour earlier than they’d said. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she shouted outside. “Please wait.”
But a young man with tools hanging from his belt was already climbing out of the truck.
“Damn,” Nora said under her breath. She ran back into the kitchen and tightened the safety belt around Corinne’s waist, securing her in the wheelchair, and pushed the chair into Corinne’s room, positioning it by the window. “Look, Mama,” she said cheerfully, “look what a nice day it is! And there’s a truck out in front. I’m going to go talk to the driver and settle Father and then I’ll come in to you again, in case you want to go back to bed. Okay?”
Her mother looked confused. “Whyza struck?” she asked, her speech slurred again.
Nora frowned; Corinne was often better, not worse, after eating. The sugar and other nutrients, Dr. Cantor said, increased her energy and awareness.
“I’ll explain later,” Nora told her. “It’s a secret for now.”
Corinne giggled. “Goody!” she said. “I never tell.”
“That’s right. Don’t tell.” She patted Corinne’s hand. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t take any wooden nickels, okay?”
Her mother nodded solemnly. It was an old joke between them, left over from Nora’s school days, when they said it to each other every morning as Nora left. “I wooden won’t. You either.”
“I won’t.” And Nora, stifling her concern over the intrusive “wooden,” hurried out of the room just as there was a pounding on the front door.
“Coming!” she called, runnng to the hall.
Simultaneously, Ralph yelled from the kitchen, “Don’t answer it!”
Ignoring both him and the sound of his walker thumping toward the front hall, Nora opened the door.
“Morning, ma’am,” the young man standing there said deferentially. He was tall, with a neatly licked-back ponytail, one earring, and the beginnings of a beard. “This is Tillot Farm, right?”
“Right,” said Nora, “and yes, I did order a phone.”
The man looked puzzled. “New installation, right?”
“Right.”
“I couldn’t find the box,” he said apologetically. “Could you show me…?”
“There isn’t one,” Nora explained as her father thumped up behind her and stared suspiciously at the young man. “There’s never been a phone here.”
“And never will be,” Ralph thundered. “We don’t take kindly to peddlers,” he said severely, “and we don’t buy anything that comes door-to-door. Didn’t know the telephone people were doing that now. But we don’t want one.”
“But I thought…” The man looked from Ralph to Nora. “That is, didn’t…?”
“It’s all right,” Nora said calmly. “You’re in the right place. Why don’t you start outdoors, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes. You do have to do something outdoors, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve got to bring the line in from the main road. But I need to know where to feed it into the house.”
“Feed what into the house?” Ralph roared. “Has everyone gone crazy? There is to be no telephone!”
“Father, please!” Nora pushed the young man gently outside, saying, “I’ll be right out; just give me a minute.” She closed the door. “Father, I did order a phone. We have to have one.”
“We do not have to have one!” he shouted, his face growing very red. “It’s too expensive, and too damned annoying. Ringing all the time, people calling up…”
“Father, listen,” Nora said with forced
patience, wondering how she could have been so stupid as to imagine she could have it installed without his knowing. “Mama had another spell just this morning. She came out of it, but what if she hadn’t?”
“You’d have gone for the doctor as you did the last time.”
“It took me twenty minutes last time to get to the Lorens’ house. And it was just luck that they were home. We have to have a phone, Father, for safety. I’ll tell people not to call us unless it’s an emergency. Suppose something happened to you?” she added, steering him back to his room. “Suppose your stomach pain became unbearable? And you’re often dizzy.”
“I’m dizzy all the time.”
Nora nodded. “Right. And suppose your dizziness made you faint, and you were lying on the floor unconscious and Mama had a spell right then? I’d have to leave both of you all alone to go for help. Suppose it was winter and there was a blizzard?”
“All right! All right! You’ve made your point,” he growled as she eased him down into the armchair in his room. “But the expense! We can’t afford it. Unless”—he looked up at her craftily—“unless you were planning to pay for it yourself out of the money you get from that stupid reading job of yours.”
“It’s not stupid, Father!” Nora shouted. “It’s the only…” She clenched her fists, bit her lip. “Don’t worry” she said quietly. “You won’t have to pay for it. It won’t come out of your money.”
“Put me in the parlor where I can see that boy working. Someone’s got to keep an eye on him.”
***
It took all morning and part of the afternoon to bring the line into the house from the road, and most of the rest of the afternoon to install the phone—in the kitchen, Nora had decided, since that was where she spent most of her time and where it would be closest to her parents’ rooms in case she had to keep an eye on them when she called for help. By the time the pony-tailed man had left, it was late afternoon, too late to pick strawberries. Tomorrow, Nora thought, starting supper as both her parents napped in their respective rooms, worn out from the disruption. Tomorrow maybe I’ll do shortcake.
Chapter Twelve
One more day of sloth, Liz promised herself before she got up Sunday morning. Then I’ll fix that window in Dad’s study so I can work there. After—she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed—doing a proper grocery shopping first thing Monday.
She stretched, looking out her window at the lake, sparkling where the early morning sun touched its slightly rippled surface.
Coffee. That’s the first thing now.
And another swim.
Fuzzily, still in the t-shirt in which she’d slept, Liz padded down to the kitchen, started the coffee maker she’d brought from New York, and went out to the dock. “Good morning, world!” she shouted, taking a deep breath of the cool but rapidly warming air. A warbler called from the woods behind her, and two darning needles danced, skittering, across the lake’s surface; a fish—pickerel, she judged from its size and shape—leapt up, grabbing one. Liz winced; bio teacher or no, she’d never been able to shake off a mild squeamishness when confronted with the food chain in action.
No one seemed up. No boats marred the surface of the lake; no motors disturbed its stillness; no shouts came from the one or two cabins, hidden by trees, that faced hers from one side of a large plot of heavily wooded vacant land on the opposite shore. Liz shucked off her t-shirt and plunged in, diving down to the muddy bottom where soft weeds waved their tendrils in the clear but brown water and rocks made elephant shapes among them. She slid along the bottom for a few frog-like breast strokes, then arced up, breaking the surface with her lungs exploding and her hair in her eyes. Exhilarated, she treaded water till she got her breath back, then swam with sure, clean strokes halfway to the other side, where a barking dog and a shouting child let her know she was no longer alone in the morning. She swam back, this time only mildly annoyed, but thinking she’d better unpack her bathing suit so she could swim without interruption.
She put her hands on the edge of the dock and jumped out of the water, shedding drops and shaking them off like a dog. Then, in deference to the remote possibility that someone on the opposite shore had binoculars, she kept her back turned, pulled her t-shirt on over her head, and ran back up to the cabin for breakfast.
***
Fixing the study window, a three-over-three casement, was obviously not going to be easy. Much of the frame’s wood was warped and rotten and what little putty remained had shrunk with age, then cracked and flaked. Liz scraped and dug at the putty with a screwdriver and a knife, planning to replace it, but soon realized the frame wasn’t worth repairing. She put her tools down and studied it. It was probably too old to be a standard size, but they’d know that at the hardware store and could order a new one if it was. If it wasn’t, she’d have to get a carpenter. She wasn’t sure she was skillful enough to build a rain-and-snow-tight window frame.
Sighing, Liz went back down to the kitchen’s tool drawer for a tape measure and measured the window, writing down the dimensions on a scrap of paper which she stuffed into her pocket. At least, she thought, it doesn’t look like rain today, and so far the rain didn’t seem to have gotten onto the desk. Nevertheless, she pulled the desk out a little further, just to make sure.
She spent the remainder of the morning unpacking the rest of her clothes and giving the cabin another, very minor, cleaning. Then, just as she was making herself a tomato sandwich and contemplating going for a walk in the woods after lunch, there was a rustling outside and a loud, insistent knocking.
Annoyed, Liz put down her mayonnaise-laden knife and answered the door.
Roy Stark stood there holding the screen open, grinning; his Mazda was parked at the end of the stone path. “Hi,” he said. “I was passing your driveway, or maybe I should call it a road, it’s so long. And I thought I’d stop in and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine.” Liz blocked the doorway with her body. “Thank you,” she added reluctantly.
“I’m thinking of heading into town for the Sunday papers,” Roy said, unabashed, “and I wondered if you needed anything, or if you’d like to come with me. There’s a good movie in Poscaquill, too; I thought maybe we could go see it later. Or have a walk in your beautiful woods.”
“Thank you,” Liz said evenly. “But no. I have other plans.”
Roy peered beyond her into the kitchen. “Nice looking kitchen,” he said. “Ah. You’re making lunch.”
“Right. And then I’m going for a walk, a working walk. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Later, I may go to the hardware store, which I think is open Sunday afternoons.”
She regretted that as soon as she said it, for Roy seized on it quickly. “Hey, maybe I could help with that! I could pick up whatever it is for you. And you know what? I’m pretty handy. No offense, but this place must need a fair amount of work, especially if it’s been shut up for so long. For a part-time English teacher and ex-surveyor, I make a pretty good carpenter.”
“And gardener,” Liz said dryly, remembering Clara Davis’s recommendation. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Ouch!” He made great show of wincing. “I guess I deserved that. Look, I’ll level with you. Mrs. Davis, bless her sweet soul, told me you’ve recently broken up with someone and she said you might be lonely. I broke up with someone, too, not long ago. So I thought maybe…”
Liz sighed. “Roy, I’m sorry. But I—I’m just not ready.” No, Liz, she told herself; he won’t accept that; she could already see it in his eyes and she imagined him framing the answer: “Well, when you are…”
Then he said it, with an acquiescent nod. “Okay, I understand that. But when you are…”
She sighed again; why was it so impossible to tell the truth? So hard, anyway.
“I don’t expect to be ready for a long time, Roy,” she told him. “I’m sorry.”
He stretched his hand out and patted her shoulder. “No, no,” he said. “My symp
athies. I’m sorry. But maybe"—he withdrew his hand—"we could just have a friendly walk sometime. As I said, I’m good at carrying equipment.” He winked.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I can manage the equipment.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Whatever. As the kids say,” he added. “Funny how one picks up their language.”
She smiled, trying to be polite without being encouraging, but didn’t answer. An insect, possibly a bee, flew past Roy’s head, buzzing loudly. He batted at it, letting go of the screen door, which swung closed, not quite slamming.
“Well,” he said, “good luck. I’ll give you a call sometime, shall I? You know, about that walk.”
“Roy, I…” Liz began, but he turned away as if to prevent the answer she was about to give him.
“See you later!” he called, walking briskly back to his car. “Bound to, in such a small town.”
Liz turned away before he got to the car, and returned to making her sandwich. But she felt oddly violated, her pleasant solitude unpleasantly shattered.
By the time she’d finished her lunch, Liz realized with annoyance that she’d better cut her walk short if she was going to go to the hardware store, so she just strolled for about a mile along the lake shore to the left of the cabin, following a muddy, overgrown path she and Jeff had often explored as children. It took her longer than she expected, for the path was tangled with weeds, and the cedar boards she and Jeff and their father had placed there long ago to bridge the muddy places were rotting and slick with bog slime where they weren’t carpeted with moss. Another project, Liz decided, somewhat cheered by the thought. She turned back, planning to bring clippers and a saw with her the next day to start restoring the path.
